Notes on a Friday

Last night, 11:13 pm
I don’t know if there is another protest or something, but there seems to be a lot more honking that usual. (Matt Lauer didn’t call us the 4th loudest city for nothing.)
And I have the hiccups.
My clothes – even some of the few things I haven’t worn – have absorbed this mix of Argentine smells. They are: smoke from el campo, laundry soap, and French fries. It always baffled me that our neighbors smell like French fries. “They must like them a lot,” I’d think to myself in the shower as the scent wafted in through the bathroom window. I can watch the family as I wash my hair. There’s an older man in a reclining chair, a baby, and a fatter lady who looks more like the maid than the mother. The dining table is always set with bottles of soda. I think there are other children. I picture them doing homework alongside litre bottles of cola. Coke and whatever comes in the green bottle. Pomelo. They can’t see me; they’re a floor below. And the windows start at my neck, tinted blue before slating down. Well, maybe they can see me, but I never catch them looking. But tonight it hit me: my neighbors are also two cafes. I’m pretty sure the French fry smell comes from them.

Last night, 12:17 am
Leandro just called me to go out. It’s only midnight, but my arms feel full of marbles and my ears were too quiet. But I guess that’s what happens when you’re still bowing to Mr. Sandman. Sandy sleep sinking into sheets. Maybe tomorrow. Gracias a vos.

Today, 10:45 am
We’re getting a new maid today, Cristina. And I woke up this morning at 6 am with a Charlie horse so bad I had to straighten my knee out and sit bolt upright to keep from yelping in the dark. It’s dehydration, I imagine. And my stomach is all set off again. Looks like it’s back to toast and dry cereal. But I’m really craving a veggie sandwich from El Bravo. And El Fenix. I’m hitting the stretch where I’m starting to get more homesick than I am psyched about being in Buenos Aires. Perhaps because things here have been slow. I told Leandro I was going out tonight. And there’s the (possibility of) the polo tournament tomorrow. Things will pick up. It’s okay to have a slow week; that’s life. Today is Brinkley’s 23rd birthday.

Today, 5:36 pm
Oftentimes when you’re traveling people like to ask you what you like best about home – trying to show an interest in your culture, I suppose. But what they don’t realize is, the things you like the most are the things you miss the most. Like ice in my water glass, knowing my way around the grocery store, family, and other conveniences. And you think about the people you left back there. And how long it’s been since you’ve hugged your parents. Or even heard their voice. And you wonder if hearing their voice would make you miss them more. So you settle on email and photographs. Like you’re still 12 and attending summer camp. And your eyes are tired from crunching travel numbers for a trip that you really hope could happen. I looked through my recipes from home yesterday, and I feel like I picked all the wrong ones. I can never find spices or processed cheese here. Our kitchen does not seem adept for Southern cooking. It seems the most I could make would be crepes and baked goods with the things I find in the grocery store. But even then, the oven is set at Celsius and units of measurement are in grams, not cups. I seemed to have packed the wrong things. It was a very Orleanna Price moment when I realized that I will just have to enjoy the food from here.

Oh, and it appears all that honking last night was in response to the rate hike for cab fares. Up from 3.10 starting out fee to 3.80. I think it’s best I master the bus routes here…